


Arrogance

by FreyaLor, red_edelweiss



Series: The Lady And Her Kitty [3]
Category: History of France, Modern AU - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basically smut with 4k words of justification, Dom/sub, F/M, Mental Illness, THIN PLOT THICK SMUT, glitter ink, yes glitter ink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 07:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13993050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor, https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_edelweiss/pseuds/red_edelweiss
Summary: A twisted kind of romance beteween Dreadful Richelieu, teacher in Theology and Politics (of course) at the famous Sorbonne, and her student, lively and wild Charlotte Marie.a "Don't stand so close to me" vibe, somehow. How therapy can be enforced in many very creative ways.With my version of Armand, his bipolar disorder barely kept in check by heavy treatment, and his rampant submissive nature stronger than ever.With Red_edelweiss's now famous Lottie, who is quite fine with dominating one of the most influential men of her time in every era imaginable.A piece, again, at first only meant to entertain Red, and published only at her advice, for the lost soul who'd be interested.Not my best work, again, please expect nothing more than filthy emotional distraction.





	Arrogance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-« Richelieu, you’re giving yourself far too much trouble.”

 

By the jump I can’t repress, I realize I was leaning on the wall next to the copy machine, blankly mesmerized by the rhythm of the sheets being spit out of that hellish tank. I blink, and look up at Dupontier, standing there with her small hands on her wide waist, watching me with that fond, yet pompous stare again. 

She gestures at the growing stack of paper produced by the copier, shaking her head in helplessness.

 

-“You’re ruining the rainforest, you know.” She claims. “Why don’t you upload your documents on the server like everyone else?”

 

_Oh, here we go again._

-“As I have told you many times” I sigh, placing the warm heap of paper into a large cardboard box. “I am not comfortable with technology.”

 

I  _feel_ her rolling her eyes behind my back, and God, I hate it with all my heart.

-“At least you could deposit one copy at the University library and let them pay for reproduction instead of using the staff’s copier.” She scorns in that low, sanctimonious voice, oh, let me guess,  _the Sorbonne needs her money, Richelieu._

-“ The Sorbonne needs her money, Richelieu.”

 

_Every bloody time._

I can’t believe I need to say that again. The amount of energy I lose repeating myself within those walls is horrifying.

-“My students are here to learn, Dupontier, not to queue in front of a copy machine. Besides, they already pay a scandalous fee just for the right to sit on those chairs, and frankly, by the car our Headmaster is driving, I don’t think the institution is anywhere near bankruptcy. Now if you’ll  _excuse me_ …”

 

I resolutely pass her by, my box tucked under my arm, and walk to my auditorium with a tired hiss. Behind me, the sound of her clacking heels speaks loud enough about how irritated she is, but it doesn't matter much.  
  
The way I am is necessary, I can’t afford to be  _pleasant_ . 

 

I push apart the wide doors of the Descartes auditorium, keeping my eyes distant as always, and drop my box on the desk. I open my mouth to start talking, but the improbable silence of the room makes me look around first, only to realize the tiers are all empty. 

_Oh, bloody hell._

What day are we? 

 

I fumble in my jacket, pull out my phone and swipe it awake.  
_Thursday 15:03._

 

I knew it. 

 

It’s  _him_ , again. 

 

 

I growl a low curse, and turn back to the doors. I cross the main hall in furious steps, making a few younger students recoil in terror on my path, and get out through the main entrance. As I stand on the top of the grand stairs, I spot him thirty yards away in the park facing the dome, sitting on the backrest of a bench, gesticulating to a pack of youngsters gathered around him. 

Every bloody Thursday, Retz keeps my students far beyond his lesson time, no doubt because this careless jester thinks himself above schedule. Truly, I know Dramatic Arts is not a serious field, but giving lessons on a  _public bench_ , for God’s sake, what does it look like? This idiot has his assigned classroom just as I do. 

I won’t even make the effort of walking to him. He’d be too content.  
I pull out my phone again, find Retz’s number and press  _call_ . 

 

I watch him cease his theatrics to search his pockets from afar. Once he finds his bleeping device, one glance for the screen is obviously enough. He doesn’t pick up. He knows. He immediately looks towards the main gates, his face turning from exalted to mildly embarrassed, and yet, the Italian fool has the nerve to bloody  _wave_ at me. 

I growl, though he cannot hear it, but my sharp nod at the inside of the building, I am sure he can see perfectly. 

He turns to my students, mumbling a knowing joke about me I am sure, but snickering or not they all stand up and run towards the doors anyways, that’s all that matters. I spin around and precede them in the auditorium.

 

They come in, hurried and sheepish, all grabbing a document in the cardboard box as they pass by. They know the drill. I give them ten seconds to sit down. I’m already seven minutes past my schedule and it means they better understand  _fast_ . 

I gingerly open my laptop, plug the projection cable, and open the presentation file for today, hoping for the best as always. When I glance over my shoulder, by a miracle I cannot comprehend, my screen is reproduced on the large white panel facing the tiers. Good. 

 

-“We will continue today our discussion about Spinoza’s  _tractatus_ .” I start, my eyes again fixed four inches above the floor. “I expect you have read the five first chapters of the book I assigned you last month, and are ready to get a grip on- 

 

_Oh God that’s her._

I know those shoes. I know why they’re red.

 

 

 

I never look at their faces for a lot of reasons.  
For one, they all hate me. The course is too hard, the content too heavy. Assignments too big, too numerous, God knows what more, I am the worst, I know. Every other teacher has agreed to lower their standards to please the Board and  _popularize_ knowledge. To this day I still firmly refuse to do anything of that kind. They will be the best that can be, or never heard of again. 

Second, it helps with the pain. If I meet one of their stares for too long, I get nauseous, and I lose track of my speech too easily. The meds work quite fine, but I need to remain cautious. Too much is at stake. I haven’t come so far to break in front of fifteen kids. 

 

I never look at their faces, but even the floor isn't safe anymore. I know her far too much by now, I even know her shoes. 

My eyes painfully ascend her frame to glance at her face, and she smiles at me, delighted and cheerful, trotting to her seat on the second row. Every time, all the time, I have to swallow the sheer beauty she is, watch daylight dance in her hair, and force myself to move on. 

It isn’t impossible to do.  
_It’s getting harder with time, that’s all._

 

-“ – on the true purpose of the institution of religious ceremonies and the political impact of historical tales.”

 

I tap on my keyboard, the slideshow begins, and I do my best to make Spinoza understandable to those incomplete, unfocused minds. I hear notepads and books being quickly fumbled through, and I hope, though I won't be fooling myself, that the number of questions will be kept to a minimum.

 

***

 

 

 

 

-“ So, according to Spinoza, the people, too low-minded to understand the way of the world, cannot achieve order without the tales of the Holy Scripts. He also states that a man, unaware of the Scripts, but conscious of the natural, existential light of God, and led in every aspect of his life by Reason, has reached a state of perfect bliss. It can be said –

 

-“Professor?”

 

_Oh, please_ .

 

I take a slow breath, it’s fine,  _you’re fine_ . 

I brace myself and look up. That lanky young man with that ridiculous shirt is raising his hand, and of course, he’s sitting right next to  _her_ . 

I force my eyes on his forehead and not his eyes, it's the best I can do. I am far enough for it to pass unnoticed anyway. 

-“Yes, Deflorennes?” I spit, and though I wish I was harsher still, I can’t find it in me to discourage their will to learn. 

-“What about a man who’d deny the existence of God?”

 

_Oh._ This isn’t even too stupid of a question, actually. 

I tap two slides back on the presentation, check over my shoulder. The miracle is still working. Good. 

 

-“As you may deduce from the premises of Spinoza’s chapter” I quietly explain, “a man who wouldn’t be enlightened upon the great matters of faith by the natural presence of God wouldn’t be called heretic or even rebellious. He would be deprived of his very humanity, and be qualified as nothing more than a brute, a creature abandoned by God.”

Deflorennes nods, rapidly taking notes, and I think myself safe with looking at his hands, but something shiny catches my attention to his left, and I realize, too late, that it’s the nonsensical sparkling pen she’s idly playing with. 

_ Lord, really, I can't be distracted, I need to- _

 

I stare right into her eyes, and my hands instinctively grip the rim of my desk. Playful and cruel, she passes the tip of her pen under her red, red mouth, and I bite the inside of my cheeks. I know those lips, I know them by heart, by skin, by  _everything._

I spent my nights suspended to their curves, overjoyed by their sound, terrified of the fall. 

 

She knows she has gripped my eyes, and she smiles again, tilting her head  _that way_ , the way she does when she’s satisfied. I suddenly want to dissolve into her, crawl at her feet and never pull away, but I remember where I am, and I feel burning pain twisting my stomach again, God _, no_ . 

I look around, knocked to silence by uncontrollable panic; and of course I meet almost all their stares at the same time.

They’re waiting,  _ expecting.  _

 

_He’s insane_ , they surely think _. He’s lost, he’s inept.  
He’s demented_ , they surely say,  _his place is in a hospital._

 

They all hate me, why shouldn’t they?  
_What have you done that could earn our sympathy?_

 

My breath ragged, my guts clenching, I take half a step back, I should have known this wasn’t a good day, I felt it this very morning, in the way my heart turned to lead when she left my house to take the bus. I rely too much on her, if she leaves, I’m as good as dead. God, I haven’t come so far to break in front of them,  _please-_

My eyes rush back to her.  _She knows._

Her face changed, from playfulness to raw concern, but she still looks serene as she presses her hands against her chest.  _“Breathe”_ she mouths, and I click into obedience, washed over by relief. My lungs unlock, and I inhale, burying my unease into my laptop. I tap two slides forward, speak out the rest of the lesson mechanically, and by fear or by coincidence, thank God, there is no other question. 

 

Three minutes left. Good.

 

-“Very well.” I state, clapping the computer shut. “Next week, I expect from each and every one of you five thousand words upon the interpretation of miracles and the way Spinoza inserts them in the fabric of Reason.  _Handwriting_ compulsory of course.”

 

A groaning lament rises and falls among the tiers. I keep my eyes on my desk, let them protest, after all, they’re here to learn. They’ll be the best that can be, or never heard of again. The way I am is necessary.  


_I can’t afford to be pleasant._

 

One minute left. Right on schedule. Good.

 

-“Dismissed.”

 

 

 

They all stand in a racket of bags and paper sheets. 

I slide the computer back into its case, letting them go without a word. Some of them mumble a “professor” as they leave, most of them just hurry outside. When the door slams for the last time I close my eyes and sigh, stepping back until my back hits the ancient blackboard and rubbing my face into my hands. That was close. Again. 

Maybe I should raise the meds. It’s been six months since Feldmann has been begging me for a checkup.  _God, I’m tired_ . 

 

-“Hey.”

 

I jump and turn around, how could I miss her presence? 

I gulp dryly, lower my eyes. Surely she is disappointed. She is young, lively and bright, she has no time to lose taking care of a sick, old man. She has sunshine to enjoy and discoveries to make, she is made for a lifetime of pleasures, not an endless string of  _nearly-accidents_ . 

Frankly, I barely understand why she doesn’t leave me right here to run away with Retz. 

 

She doesn’t speak _, of course, she’s mad_ , and I bite hard into my thumb, focusing on the rush of sharp pain, feeling it eclipse for a while the mightier, less controllable agony  _inside_ . 

-“Armand.” Her soft voice rises. “Armand, stop.”

  
I quickly let go of my hand.  
  
-“Look at me.”

 

My eyes slide on the floor, meet her red shoes, her slender legs, that cheap flowery summer dress she let me buy her last august, the maddening line of her collarbone, her neck, her face. 

She’s smiling. 

_She’s not angry._

 

She doesn’t move closer, because we swore ourselves never to. We’re not safe here, never will be, and we need to take every precaution. But her eyes are warmer than the sun outside as it plays through the oaks of the park, and she nods quietly, hammering her words with limitless, devoted care. 

 

-“You have been doing just fine, my good boy.”   
  
  
I fear I may have whined a bit loud.

 

 

She gives me a few moments to build back my composure, and when she’s satisfied with the way I look, she lets out a small laugh, and gently walks to the door. 

-“I’ll be home early.” She soothes. “Around five.”

 

She said “home”. My heart skips a beat. I try on the ghost of a smile, but before she closes the door upon a last flash of her red hair, she still drops in a higher, complaining voice :

 

-“But really,  _five thousand words_ ? You  _**Hades** _ .”

 

I don’t have time to say I can prepare a canvas for her, and it doesn’t matter, she wouldn’t let me anyways. 

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

 

 

 

-“Marie, what in the name of God is _that?”_

  
  


She closes her book and lazily turns towards me from the couch she’s slumped on. A late afternoon sun crushes the living room through the absurdly high windows this house always held, bathing the sofa she resolutely pushed until it faced them.

She takes a sip of that pink smoothie she’s so fond of, and looks at me in perfect innocence as I lift her assignment in the air above the pile I was rating.

  
  


-“Those are my five thousand words, Kitty.” She cheers, hardly repressing a very smug grin. “Handwriting, as compulsory,  _ of course _ .”

  
  


I roll my eyes, helpless. _Really?_ Still not over that?

  
  


-“What on Earth did you write them with?” I ask.

  
  


Spread upon the fifteen sheets of her essay, lay regular lines of bright red words, with a touch, I think, of glitter in the ink.

  
  


-“Oh!” She snaps, delighted, and fumbles through her purse to pull out a handful of those sparkling plastic pens I saw in the auditorium before. “Look!”

Every layer of a rainbow is fairly represented, and it’s almost frightening. I wasn’t even aware those things were actually being sold somewhere in Paris. But then again, I barely ever go out of Montmartre.

 

I narrow my eyes at her.

  
  


It’s a struggle for me, being her teacher outside this house, and her - …  _ devoted companion  _ here inside, she knows it.

Most of the time, I simply manage to keep the Sorbonne out of our conversations, but truth be told, I _do_ impose a lot of assignments, and it’s getting difficult to spend time in her presence without this kind of work making an appearance. Whenever it does, I refrain myself from helping too much, and she makes sure never to take advantage of her - … position in our relationship, so all in all, the inconsistency is managed.

  
  


Today, I thought it quite safe to start reviewing the essays of her class while she was relaxing next to me, as I was confident in her performance on the Spinoza  _ Tractatus _ . I wasn’t wrong, her contents deserve 15, which is almost the highest rate I allow the students to ever get.

  
  


But the  _ form _ , good Lord, I didn’t quite expect.

  
  


Her smile widens, beaming pride. That’s in her nature, I suppose. She’s a wild creature. She can accept so much of my rules and regulations, for the sake of the quality of my teaching perhaps, but _obedience_ is not the core of her soul. To say the least.

 

Sooner or later, she’s bound to test authority.

 

It’s a small taunt, and it’s quite discrete. I don’t think she’d go as far as challenging me in class. She knows about the pain, and by a wonder I can’t always believe in, she does care. But this little game, she couldn’t help.

 

I lay back the essay flat in front of me, biting my lips. It’s absurd, in a way. I know as her teacher I am supposed to punish this unnecessary extravaganza, and yet, I guessed by the way her full lips curl, that tonight the curtains will be drawn on those insane windows, and she’ll have me sitting right there at the feet of that couch, her hands in my hair, my head on her thigh.

 

She’ll order me, and she’ll find completion there.

I’ll serve her with everything I am, and in her satisfaction I’ll find my peace.

  
  


  
  


But right now, my pen is suspended above her paper, and we both know how it will end.

  
  


I clench my teeth, scribble a 10, and add “ _ five points taken for arrogance _ .”

She tilts her head, curious, but I clap the folder shut with all rated essays and slide it into my case in determined silence.

  
  


-“So?” She tries, infinitely amused.

  
  


-“You’ll see tomorrow.” I huff dismissively.

  
  


It’s her turn to narrow her eyes of summer skies, and heavy silence spreads for a minute. I feel her tempted to press on, and I am perfectly aware that if she ever does, I’m not likely to win this war.

 

But strangely, she choses not to, shrugging gracefully and laying down her book. She keeps the glitter pens in her hand, staring at them with pensive eyes, and as I turn back to my work, I briefly wonder why.

  
  


 

 

After a while, as I finish my cup of tea shuffling through my agenda, her voice rises again, with that exact tone of tender firmness that sends a thrill up my very spine.

  
  


-“Come over here, Armand.” She demands, and I almost moan out loud.

 

  
  


I put down my cup and walk to her, averting my eyes so she can’t read too much about my hopes. I don’t sit, I don’t speak yet. I wait, just as musicians do, for the conductor to impose his own tempo.

 

 

Sleepy sunlight is painting her naked legs in copper hues, and grants warmer tones to that washed-out, hideously long Sorbonne Tshirt she found in my attic. Her sunbathing has done no good, I fear, to her pale complexion, but she seems relaxed, and that may be the bigger point. I don’t dare to look up, but I know she pinned her hair up, and that may be the most beautiful thing I ever saw in that old house.

  
  


  
  


I have a glance outside the windows. On the other side of the square, our neighbor’s windows are open wide. It means Carole is at home, and, with my luck, probably  _ watching  _ again. Strangely, I have never minded her spying on me being alone and miserable for fifteen years, but now that Marie is there, though it may seem absurd coming from the owner of those nonsensical windows, I’d like some privacy.

  
  


  
  


-“Do you want to close the curtains before I go on, Armand?”

 

I turn to her with a jump, and meet her soft, knowing stare. The amount of silence Marie can understand never ceases to amaze me. She hasn’t even left a toothbrush in the bathroom, but no matter how unconceivable it is to me, she’s almost at home into my mind.

  
  


I nod, humble. She chuckles fondly and allows me to do it.

  
  


I only pull at the thick falls of burgundy velvet facing the couch, leaving the others as they were, because I know she likes to enjoy sunlight until the last second. She’d be a sunflower, that one,  _ if sunflowers had thorns. _

 

-“Sit.” She speaks, gesturing the couch next to her.

  
  


I am a bit disappointed she didn’t point at the floor, but good things, I know, have to be  _ earned _ .

I slip out of my shoes and crawl on the sofa, watching her with awe and expectation. She eyes me from head to toe, her approval visible, but a deeper shade of worry still lingering on her brow. She passes a hand on my cheek, and though I know she’s just inspecting my face, I still lean into it with a quiet sigh.

  
  


-“You’ve lost sleep again.” She states.

I lower my eyes. There’s no point in denying.

  
  


-“Are you taking your meds?” She asks, tilting her head again.

 

-“Yes.”

 

I do, I swear, I’d never lie to her, but I know she remembers the incident in the classroom. I also know she remembers the three other ones last week. I know she’s counting. She always is.

  
  


-“They don’t work as good as they used to.” She adds, frowning, and I bite my lips in shame. “How come?”

 

-“I have been warned about a process of habituation…”

 

-“For God’s sake Armand, “she exhales, “when did you intend to go back to your psychiatrist?”

  
  


  
  


I know I should _ , I know I should _ . I just don’t want to.

I don’t want to drive back there and ask for a change of meds again, I have been doing that for twenty years, understand, my beloved,  _ your whole lifetime _ . I don’t want to spend half of my waking hours thinking about that bloody pain anymore, planning my days according to it, from the moment I wake up to the last thing before I sleep. I want this monster gone, I wish myself free.

I want to be easier _ , I want to be ordinary. _

  
  


I want to be someone you don’t have to worry about, I want you to stop inspecting my eyes, checking my pulse, counting my lapses. I don’t want to be treated, Marie,  _ I want the monster gone. _

 

 

I want, more than anything, to be just a bit less of a  _** burden ** _ **. **

  
  


  
  
  
  


-“I will make a phone call tomorrow.” I let out.

  
  


My hands are shaking again, and I want to bite them to stillness. I breathe slowly, I’m fine _ , it’s fine. _

 

 

I start to grip the fabric of the couch, but she leans in to kiss my cheek, and at the contact of her skin my blurred mind clears out. She could be the sea, that one, if the sea smelled of strawberry juice.

 

-“Roll up your sleeves and extend your hands, palms facing up.” She commands.

 

  
  


I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter much. I carefully obey while she shifts on the couch to be sitting closer, rolling her glitter pens in her hands with playful delight.

She uncaps the yellow one, looks at me right in the eyes and  _ smiles _ . A wild strand of red hair falls between her thin eyebrows, and I could die in bliss right now.

  
  


-“Now.” She whispers. “Let’s see if we can make you like this _extravagant_ ink a bit more, shall we?”

 

 

With that, gently, _purposefully_ , she draws a straight line from the inside of my elbow to my wrist, and I gasp at the shiver it sends through my thin, sensitive skin. I look down at the shining yellow trait glistening on my arm, the sheer ridicule of it somehow dulled by my immediate need for more.

Almost giggling, she takes a hold of my wrist to write something there, and in between jolts and shudders I realize those are my initials. The whole set,  _ A-d-P-R _ , because I suppose only two would have been less fun.

 

The sensation is subtle, but amazing, and just focusing on it pushes every shadow of pain out of my mind in mere minutes. She does the very same for my other arm, and this time I whimper in pleasure. She seems to like the sound, and her eyes darken a bit. Her smile grows wilder, smarter, and I fear this is only the beginning of her plans.

  
  


-“Now, listen to me.” She orders, and I have to inhale through clenched teeth to prevent a moan again. “I will say a few things to you, and if you want me to write them there, you’ll simply have to  _ repeat them _ . Agreed?”

  
  


-“Yes.”

  
  


I don’t think I even gave it a thought, but it doesn’t matter much.

I just want more of whatever she's willing to give. I’m confident I’d settle for  _ anything. _

  
  


  
  


She nods appreciatively, discards the yellow pen and pulls out a light blue one. She has a fond, yet piercing stare for me, and bends slightly forward, letting that loose T-shirt reveal hints of her bare breasts underneath.

 

I gulp dryly. 

I am about to try on some kind of charming smile, but her first sentence falls, and I feel punched in the chest.

  
  


-“ I am not a burden.” She says.

  
  


  
  


I forgot, of course. Not a toothbrush in my bathroom,  _ her footprints all over my mind. _

All my silences, she understands.

 

 

  
  


I already feel tears drowning my eyes, and I hate myself for it _ , you’re not even sick, Armand,  _ my brother used to say _ , you’re just a pussy, that’s all. _

 

 

Well, who spends one week out of two in Charcot Hospital tied in a bed screaming by now, Alphonse?

 

 

I repeat her words, calmly. I have made it so far after all.

Maybe, tonight, to her,  _ I am not a burden. _

 

She grins, and slowly writes the words, in wide capital letters, on my left arm. The faint shivers start again, oh God, she is  _ writing on me _ . Blue, slick traits shine on the worthless white sheet my skin is, and the sight of her focused, beautiful face makes me whimper in joy.

 

She lifts up the pen, very proud of her work, and turns to my other arm whispering :

 

-“I deserve my Lady’s attention.”

  
  


I’m not sure of that at all, and I know she wouldn’t appreciate if I repeated the words without at least thinking them a little. I want to shake my head, but I bit on my urge, concentrating on her jawline, and that spotless skin below her ear, grazed by thin curly hair.

 

She’s gorgeous, and I’m a deranged, lonely old man. 

 

She’s far beyond my league to the point it’s  _ scandalous _ , I read it bright and clear every time I meet the disdain in Carole’s eyes.

I am not blind, though, to the fact that she has many other options, all of them young, all of them healthy. Though a louder part of my brain keeps on shouting a star cannot spend too much time shining upon a worm, reason whispers that if she thought the same, she wouldn’t be sitting there on my couch.

 

I repeat, unsure, but resolute.

Maybe, tonight, to her _ , I deserve my Lady’s attention. _

  
  


She lets out a jubilant sigh and writes the sentence on the inside of my arm in that devilish, wet blue ink.

I fight my squirming with everything I have, but to no avail. I shift on the couch, and as she licks her lips I feel warmth grazing my guts, releasing that moan I’ve been hiding all along.

  
  


-“Marie…” I plead, but she only laughs.

 

-“I deserve to be taken care of.” She says.

 

_ Oh God, the sentences are getting longer. _

  
  


Most of my days, I actively avoid the lurking certainty that I don’t deserve to live, but I have duties, I have schedules, I have purpose at least, and it seems after all that very important things can be done by worms too.

But she isn’t the Headmaster, she isn’t a Minister, she isn’t the President, and yet, she never seems to get tired of my presence, wasting hours of her glorious youth to make sure I survive through another week. There must be something she sees.

 

There must be something she knows.

 

I repeat, pliant, docile.

Maybe, tonight, to her _ , I deserve to be taken care of. _

 

  
  


She beams in pride, discards the blue pen, pulls out a green one.

Her grip around my left arm grows a bit firmer as she writes, bold letters, slick shiny ink. The shivers blur my mind, send incoherent pleasure right to my groin, I feel myself hardening, _she’s marking me, concentrated, enthralled,_ and I almost cry out. 

  
  


It doesn’t happen often. It’s the meds, mostly. The dosage has increased through the years, and I’ve been told the side effects cannot be helped. She never minded much, she found  _ other ways _ .

It didn’t prevent that smothering shame to come back washing over me every time I've been reminded of how desperately _crippled_ I am.

 

While she marks the last word she shoots up a quick glance at me. She noticed, I am sure, but her face doesn’t even twitch. She simply finishes her work, her breath merely a little huskier as she enunciates :

 

-“I am gentle, handsome and worthy of love.”

 

Oh, Marie,  _** please ** _ _ , I am none of this. _

 

Have you any idea of what I have done, the foreign wars I advised, the policies, the taxes. Are you even aware of what exactly France does owe my work? And if none of this talks to you, well, _ask my students._

Have you even looked at me, Marie, I beg you don’t make me say that.

  
  


But there is raw want burning in my skin now, and God, I want those words. I may not be able to think them, but I believe her when she says them, and I pray for it to be enough.

  
  


I repeat, pleading,  _ I am gentle. _

She closes her eyes for a second.

 

_ Handsome. _

She lets out a shuddering breath.

 

_ And worthy of love. _

  
  


-“Good boy.” She exhales, and I cry out in bliss.

 

 

 

She writes, intense in her focus despite my trembling and whimpering, and she truly sounds perfectly calm, only a slight irregularity in her E’s as a clue of her own enjoyment. Her words shine on my skin as they have in my heart for six months by now. 

 

Her words, her thoughts, marked on my body by her own hand, soothing, calming, reassuring. Her care,  _ indelible and clear. _

 

Unquestionable and pure.

_ God, I want her to devour me whole. _

  
  


When she’s done she pulls away to gauge the results again. Both my arms are covered in drying glitter, and I am panting, helpless, ignited.

 

The satisfaction in her eyes drive me mad, and as she leans in for a kiss I welcome her moaning, open-mouthed, eager. I slump back on the couch, and she follows, falling flushed against me. When her naked thigh brushes between my legs I cry out once more, and if she had doubts before, well, I think they’re gone by now.

 

She pulls back to stare at me, triumphant, and I humbly gaze back, my hands raised around my head, waiting for her consent to be touched.

Which she doesn’t seem ready to give.

  
  


-“There’s still one pen we need to explore, Armand” she heaves against my cheek, “but I am afraid your arms are already taken.”

  
  


She lifts her hand to my eyes, fiddling with the red pen. As I watch, fascinated, she brings the trinket to her lips, and the ways she closes her mouth around the tip makes me moan in sheer lust.

She gently nibbles the cap off, and leans back towards me, breathing on my lips:

  
  


-“I need more skin. Take off your shirt.”

  
  


I obey, of course I do, it's the only thing that appeases the terror of showing more of me while there's still so much light. I can read the smaller letters on her T shirt, it means she'll see the ribs, the jutting hipbones, _everything._

 

And yet she ordered, and I will obey.  
That reality is the only lighthouse in my storm.

 

 

I unbutton the thin fabric, and lift myself off the couch just enough to drop it on the floor, but she shakes her head and gestures me to give it to her instead. As I hand it out, frowning, she suddenly pulls my old T-shirt above her head and throws it away, her bare chest revealed so fast I gasp in shock. I crawl backwards, terrified of her noticing the rough twitch in my groin, but she sees the swift lick of my lips quite clear, and tuts playfully.

 

She gently puts on my shirt, letting it hang loose on her shoulders, and the curve of her rounded, lively breasts makes me forget I am dying in panic. She still doesn't allow me to touch, and my hands, pliant, slide away until they're joined upon my chest, desperately trying to hide the worst of it.

I look up at her, distressed, wheezing, unable to understand her dark, famished look on my white skin, my sickly limbs. Despise her visible want, her touch on my waist remains gentle, graceful, and when her fingers graze a subtle line down my stomach I cry out in need.

  
  


She leans forward, devilish and skilled, letting her breasts brush my hands on my chest, barely enough to be noticed, and yet much more than I can stand.

  
  


-”Marie!”

 

-” _ Shht. _ ”

  
  


She devours my mouth again, muffing my whimpers as I lay there trembling, my hands clenched around each other to keep me from touching her, desperate for her word, breathing for her wish.

 

-”One more sentence, Armand.” she breathes agains my lips, and I nod, anguished.

  
  


She strokes a lazy path down my ribcage,  _ oh, please don't touch that it's revolting. _

 

She doesn't seem to mind. She settles somewhere on my waist, and applies the tip of her pen there. As she does, she nudges her knee one single inch forward, not much, really, but it makes her naked skin touch the bulge in my pants again, and I moan in raw pleasure.

Her eyelids falter at the sounds, and she hums appreciatively.

 

-“I belong to my Lady Charlotte Marie de Trélazé.” She breathes, and the _possessiveness_ in her voice sends a shudder up my spine.

 

  
  


I repeat, easily, only thwarted by my own jagged breath, and she glances downwards with elegance. I feel the wet ink starting to caress my waist and my hips jerk up in a loud cry.

By the short flinch of her face I suppose I made her miss a letter and I stammer confused apologies. I promise I'll stay still, and she nods, satisfied. She writes the full sentence, her eyes riveted on my skin, and my hands twitch so hard it hurts.

 

When she's done, she rewards me with a slight shift of her knee, and I yell her name in a start. She looks up at me, a bit hazed maybe, and the pride I feel at the reddening of her cheeks chases away the loathing I have for my own body.

 

-”So sensitive, my Kitty is.” she murmurs. “So intense in his reactions.”

  
  


_ I'm sorry, Marie, I beg you, forgive me, I never could, you know. It's the pain, it's the fear, it's the voices in my head. I'll try to be quiet, please, don't tell me you're displeased. _

  
  


-” I like it.” She smiles.

  
  


_ Oh thank God. _

  
  


She leans down again, please,  _ yes _ , and her knee gives a short nudge. I feel her skin, laid down heavier against my hands, her hardened nipples pressed against my fingers,  _ oh God, Marie - _

 

-”Only my Armand can whimper for me.” she breathes into my ears, and my eyes roll back,  _ yes! _

 

I don't understand why, and maybe I never will, but please, keep me safe, keep me sane, say that again.

My Mistress, my sunlight,  _ say that forever. _

  
  


-”Only my Armand can cry out freely under my hands and mouth.”

  
  


I feel a bit of her tongue darting out around my ear and  _ scream _ . My hips move up and down on their own will, and she throws away the red pen to keep them still with a firm hand. I'm not breathing anymore, I'm crying out in confused gasps, my nails digging bruises in my chest, squirming on the couch, burned alive by pleasure,  _ Marie, slow down, please, I'm not going to- _

  
  


-”Only my Armand can make me shiver in delight with every order he obeys to.”

  
  


_ Oh, God. _

-”Marie, _**please**_ !”

 

She doesn't care. Both her hands are on my waist now, keeping me still against her knee, barely touching just as she wants it, and she just speaks in my ear, her breath shortened, her skin burning.

It's torture, it's torment, but it's what pleases her, and I need nothing else. She's there, she's real, she's leaning above me, and she sounds so  _ satisfied. _

 

-”Only my Armand can make me want to be _served_...”

  
  


I let out a pleading cry, my head falling back on the couch, my hips fighting her hands,  _ Marie, stop, please, if you want me to - _

 

-”...worshipped...”

 

I am crushed, helpless, by flashing jolts of pleasure, and though I swear I do not move, tI still cry out with every breath, maddened, dizzy, vanquished.

  
  


-”... _pleasured_.”

  
  


I close my eyes, my cries higher, shameful, uncontrollable.

I shudder in ecstasy, white light threatening,  _ Marie, please, don't you see what you're doing to me? _

 

I feel her smile against my cheek. She knows. She knows what is becoming inevitable.

God, she wants it so.

 

_ She wants it so. _

 

She gently unknots one of my hands free, and guides it down without detour or compromise, right there between her legs, and I don't even need to slide inside her panties to feel -

_ Oh, my- _

 

-”Only my Armand can make me _wet_ without a finger on my skin.”

  
  


-”Marie, _**ah !**_ -”

My hand flies to grab her thigh, leaving a wet spot there, and I shift myself against her with a howl of bliss. She lets me move, once, twice, I'm not sure, and I yell her name, spasming in orgasm, riding my pleasure against her knee, lost to the whole world, except to her.

 

My sunlight, my Mistress.

_ The lighthouse in my storm. _

  
  


She gives me time to gasp in aftershocks, her ragged breath next to my mouth, her hands, gentler, crawling up to my face again.

I barely have time to enjoy this too rare a delight before shame rushes back to devour it. I let out a mortified sob, looking down at myself, and that stain growing on my pants,  _ oh, for God's sake, I am forty-five, it is despicable - _

  
  


-”My Kitty has been amazing again.” I hear her panting, and I look up at her in disbelief.

  
  


I frown, eaten alive by self-hatred, and yet soothed once more by her tender voice.

She chuckles, her pupils wide and her hips supple, she's true, she's real.

I don't understand, and I maybe never will, but she's aroused, and that must be because of me. She stares at me, up and down again, and her pink tongue licks her hungry lips. My free hand twitches against her breast once more and it's her turn to  _ moan _ .

  
  


-”All of this” she breathes with one finger on my pants, “with just a few words? I am one lucky Lady.”

  
  


_ Really? You didn't hope for anything more that this pathetic show? _

 

-”But, Marie, you know, the meds, I may not be able to-”

 

-”Who told you this is what I have in mind?”

 

 

  
  


I clap my mouth shut and stare, wide-eyed. While I wait for her to speak, I find time to breathe, and feel the last waves of pleasure rippling through my skin. I sigh softly, my shoulders dropping, and that makes her moan, I don't know why.

After a while she nods towards the floor and fondly speaks :

 

-”Now, since you've been a very good boy, you may let go of those pants, and kneel right there.”

  
  


I whimper in joy,  _ good tings indeed have been earned. _

 

 

I beg for a kiss, and quickly obey, sliding on the floor and pulling my clothes off, more than happy to get rid of those gruesome pants. Once it's done, I realize by the flame in her eyes that I am naked, and I hold on for no more than thirty seconds before I feel the need to recoil in embarrassment.

 

I lower my eyes, fix them on the floor where my old shirt still lies, and I hear her groaning. I'm absolutely sure she rolled her eyes,  _ forgive me Marie, but you have to understand, I am - _

  
  


-”You are gorgeous, Kitty...” She states, confident, and I squeeze my eyes upon a tear.

  
  


-”...But I'll give you some respite.” She adds after a while.

  
  


While my eyes stay resolutely on the parquet, I hear her reaching for the armrest of the couch to fetch my tattered dressing gown there, and gently drop it front of me.

 

-“I want you to be comfortable.” She soothes. 

 

I nod in thankfulness, sliding into the sturdy fabric with a blissful sigh. I move to tie the belt around my waist but she shakes her head, tutting some more.

 

-”Let's not go that far shall we?” she muses, and I yield, letting the gown fall open at my sides.

  
  


-”Look at me now, Armand.”

  
  


I take a dee breath, it's fine,  _ I'm fine. _

My eyes crawl up her frame, praised by twilight, adorned by warmth. Slender legs, dark, wet panties, curvy hips, lively breasts.

  
  


Her face, the most precious thing stardust has made, looking at me in playful want. She doesn't speak anymore. She doesn't need to. She strokes a distracted path from her breasts to her hips, and I moan in rapture. She slides her thumbs in her panties, pulls them down along her pale, naked legs, and I have to press my palm against my mouth or I'll embarrass myself again.

When the small piece of cloth lies loose around one of her ankles she joyfully lifts it with her foot so it brushes my cheek, and even my hand can't muffle my  _ whine _ .

  
  


She spreads her legs then, just a little, and beckons me with a finger.

I understand, licking my lips, why she didn't mind the mess I've made after all.

  
  
  


I shift forward, and passing by her delicate, flawless feet I cant resist laying a slow, reverent kiss on each one of them. The sound she makes is surprised, maybe, but it's pleased nevertheless, and I dare to feel  _ emboldened _ .

 

My hands settle on her thighs, humble, and she seems to like the way I look at her a lot. She squirms slightly, a ragged sigh escaping her throat, and one of her hands take a rough hold of my hair. I wince, but not entirely in pain. I smile. The order is given.

 

_ I will obey. _

 

 

I lean down and lick my way into her folds, losing a bit of time, but not too much, the ways she wants it. As she moans in pleasure I circle around her spot, with the rhythm she taught me, with the pressure she prefers. It's a bit rougher than I would have done, but she is, after all,  _ a wild creature. _

 

The taste of her sends me into flames, the smell of her wipes out my mind. The shivers in her thighs dissolve the pain, crushes the fear. Her grip tightens in my hair, I don't mind.  _ I don't mind. _

  
  


I want to be good, I really do.

  
  


I lick and rub, focused, eager, and she was right, I have all my time by now.

She cries out a few times, it means she's pleased, and life still has to provide me a better reason fro breathing

 

-”Armand!” She calls out, her fingers urging me on, her head swaying back against the couch.

  
  


My thumbs on her inner thighs start rubbing firm circles there, to match the moves of my tongue, and I feel her shudder in bliss. I have never been prouder.

I keep a slow, but harsh pace, and her cries grow louder. She calls my name twice, between lost praise and scattered moans.

  
  


At some point she hisses something definite, and I have to stop, pulling away as gently as I can.

She looks down at me, and I desperately wish to engrave into my mind the sight of her just like that, shimmering in sweat, shivering in bliss.

Her eyes glassy, her throat visibly dry, and passes a awestruck finger on my swollen lips.

 

-”You're learning.” She pants. “My clever boy.”

  
  


I cry out in dizzy happiness, but she gives me no time to speak. She urges me upwards with a firm tug on my hair, and I know what it means. I lay my forehead on her shoulder, her hold of my hair soften, and I kiss and lick the divine curve of her lower neck, breathing a few promises there.

 

Then, on her sharp command, I part her legs further and slide two fingers in.

 

It took me time to master this, but she has been patient, trustful in my deft hands.

Even in that, she hasn't been wrong.

 

My thumb keeps rubbing her spot, now thickened with pleasure, but I thrust into her all the same, feeding on her wild, careless cries. I have to be rough, she wants it so, and I want to be good.

  
  


I really do.

  
  


-”Armand,  _** yes!  ** _ _ Don't stop! _ ”

I won't. I have, after all, all my time by now.

  
  


I feel her hips shifting up to meet my fingers, but she already lost all rhythm, her eyes closed in bliss, her hands gripping me tight. I'll slow down, if she asks me to, but she doesn't speak much.

Her perfume in her hair, the wet sounds we both make, it all blurs my mind, but I don't lose my purpose. The couch creaks, that ancient thing, and soon I feel her clenching around me, I know what it means.

  
  


I crook my fingers, thrust deep, stop dead.

-” _** Armand! ** _ ”

 

She cries out, longer, higher, and I have to moan with her, because she's coming, hard, and she lets me feel  _ everything. _

It lasts for an endless, blessed minute, and she might have bitten my shoulder somewhere along.

I don't mind. Why would I? It's one more mark, one more gift.

  
  


I'd take everything she's willing to give.

  
  


I wait until her shudder recede, then pull out gently, the sound of it almost obscene.

She still doesn't look like she can talk, but she kisses me, her lips dry with shouting, breathing “ _good boy”_ against my mouth, and I whimper my adoration once more. 

 

There is no pain, no fear, I'm safe.

  
  


I'm fine.

  
  


I have obeyed and she has found completion there.

I have served her with everything I have, and in her satisfaction,  _ I found my peace. _

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
